And in swiche forme endure a day or two:
Than were my brother warished of his wo,
Than must she nedes holden hire behest,
Or elles he shal shame hire at the lest.
What shuld I make a lenger tale of this?
Unto his brothers bed he comen is,
And swiche comfort he yaf him, for to gon
To Orleaunce, that he up stert anon,
And on his way forthward than is he fare,
In hope for to ben lissed of his care.
Whan they were come almost to that citee, But if it were a two furlong or three,
A yonge clerk roming by himself they mette,
Which that in Latine thriftily hem grette.
And after that he sayd a wonder thing;
I know, quod he, the cause of your coming:
And or they forther any foote went,
He told hem all that was in hir entent.
This Breton clerk him axed of felawes, The which he had yknowen in olde dawes, And he answered him that they dede were, For which he wept ful often many a tere. Doun of his hors Aurelius light anon, And forth with this magicien is gon
Home to his hous, and made hem wel at ese: Hem lacked no vitaille that might hem plese. So wel arraied hous as ther was on,
Aurelius in his lif saw never non.
He shewed hem, or they went to soupere, Forestes, parkes ful of wilde dere.
Ther saw he hartes with hir hornes hie,
The gretest that were ever seen with eie.
He saw of hem an hundred slain with houndes,
And som with arwes blede of bitter woundes.
He saw, whan voided were the wilde dere,
Thise fauconers upon a faire rivere,
That with hir haukes han the heron slain.
Tho saw he knightes justen in a plain.
And after this he did him swiche plesance,
That he him shewed his lady on a dance,
On which himselven danced, as him thought.
And whan this maister, that this magike wrought,
Saw it was time, he clapped his hondes two,
And farewel, al the revel is ago.
And yet remued they never out of the hous,
While they saw all thise sightes merveillous;
But in his studie, ther his bookes be,
They saten still, and no wight but they three.
To him this maister called his squier,
And sayd him thus, may we go to souper?
Almost an houre it is, I undertake,
Sin I you bade our souper for to make,
Whan that thise worthy men wenten with me
Into my studie, ther my bookes be.
Sire, quod this squier, whan it liketh you,
It is al redy, though ye wol right now.
Go we than soupe, quod he, as for the best,
Thise amorous folk somtime moste han rest.
At after souper fell they in tretee
What summe shuld this maisters guerdon be,
To remue all the rockes of Bretaigne,
And eke from Gerounde to the mouth of Saine.
He made it strange, and swore,so God him save,
Lesse than a thousand pound he wold not have,
Ne gladly for that summe he wold not gon.
Aurelius with blisful herte anon
Answered thus; fie on a thousand pound:
This wide world, which that men sayn is round,
I wold it yeve, if I were lord of it.
This bargaine is ful-drive, for we ben knit;
Ye shul be paied trewely by my trouth.
But loketh, for non negligence or slouth,
Ye tarie us here no lenger than to morwe.
Nay, quod this clerk, have here my faith to borwe.
To bed is gon Aurelius whan him lest,
And wel nigh all that night he had his rest,
What for his labour, and his hope of blisse,
His woful herte of penance had a lisse.
Upon the morwe whan that it was day,
To Bretaigne token they the righte way,
Aurelie, and this magicien him beside,
And ben descended ther they wold abide:
And this was, as the bookes me remember,
The colde frosty seson of December.
Phebus waxe old, and hewed like laton,
That in his hote declination
Shone as the burned gold, with stremes bright;
But now in Capricorne adoun he light,
Wher as he shone ful pale, I dare wel sain.
The bitter frostes with the sleet and rain
Destroyed han the grene in every yerd.
Janus sit by the fire with double berd,
And drinketh of his bugle horn the wine:
Beforn him stant braune of the tusked swine,
And nowel crieth every lusty man.
Aurelius in all that ever he can,
Doth to his maister chere and reverence,
And praieth him to don his diligence
To bringen him out of his peines smerte,
Or with a swerd that he wold slit his herte.
This sotil clerk swiche routh hath on this man, That night and day he spedeth him, that he can,
To wait a time of his conclusion;
This is to sayn, to make illusion,
By swiche an apparence or joglerie,
(I can no termes of Astrologie)
That she and every wight shuld wene and say,
That of Bretaigne the rockes were away,
Or elles they were sonken under ground.
So at the last he hath his time yfound
To make his japes and his wretchednesse
Of swiche a superstitious cursednesse.
His tables Toletanes forth he brought
Ful wel corrected, that ther lacked nought,
Nother his collect, ne his expans yeres,
Nother his rotes, ne his other geres,
As ben his centres, and his argumentes,
And his proportionel convenientes
For his equations in every thing.
And by his eighte speres in his werking,
He knew ful wel how fer Alnath was shove
Fro the hed of thilke fix Aries above,
That in the ninthe spere considered is.
Ful sotilly he calculed all this.
Whan he had found his firste mansion,
He knew the remenant by proportion;
And knew the rising of his mone wel,
And in whos face, and terme, and every del;
And knew ful wel the mones mansion
Accordant to his operation;
And knew also his other observances,
For swiche illusions and swiche meschances,
As hethen folk used in thilke daies.
For which no lenger maketh he delaies,
But thurgh his magike, for a day or tway,
It semed all the rockes were away.
Aurelius, which that despeired is,
Whether he shal han his love, or fare amis,
Awaiteth night and day on this miracle:
And whan he knew that ther was non obstacle,
That voided were thise rockes everich on,
Doun to his maisters feet he fell anon,
And sayd; I woful wretch Aurelius,
Thanke you, my lord, and lady min Venus,
That me han holpen fro my cares cold.
And to the temple his way forth hath he hold,
Theras he knew he shuld his lady see.
And whan he saw his time, anon right he
With dredful herte and with ful humble chere
Salued hath his soveraine lady dere.
My rightful lady, quod this woful man,
Whom I most drede, and love, as I best can,
And lothest were of all this world displese,
N'ere it that I for you have swiche disese,
That I must die here at your foot anon,
Nought wold I tell how me is wo begon.
But certes other must I die or plaine;
Ye sle me gilteles for veray peine.
But of my deth though that ye han no routh,
Aviseth you, or that ye breke your trouth:
Repenteth you for thilke God above,
ye me sle, because that I you love. For, madame, wel ye wote what ye have hight; Not that I chalenge any thing of right Of you, my soveraine lady, but of grace; But in a gardin yond, in swiche a place, Ye wote right wel what ye behighten me, And in myn hond your trouthe plighten ye, To love me best; God wote ye saied so, Although that I unworthy be therto;
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